


Wrong side of the tracks

by Latenightsgunfights



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gangs, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this when the riverdale writers weren't on crack, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Nightmares, References to Drugs, Stabbing, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 13:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21282707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latenightsgunfights/pseuds/Latenightsgunfights
Summary: Jughead dreams about how life could of been.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Kudos: 22





	Wrong side of the tracks

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note, the 'dream' is focused around s1 or s2, and the end is s4.
> 
> This is very different from the fandoms I usually write for but I'm trying something new.

He slipped through dank alleyways with trained skill.

Even in his short life Jughead Jones had been doing this long enough to consciously lighten footsteps and avoid streetlight, he’d been doing this long enough to subtly flinch at a nearby movement in the dark and bring a small hand down to pat the very brim of his jeans where a sizeable blade lay hidden.

Jughead knew how shit went down here.

Jughead knew it’d be a cold day in hell before he ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.

In an ideal world he wouldn’t even be here. He’d be sitting huddled close to the warm fire place of a big home on the North Side. He’d walk home from school with Betty or Archie before waving them off, smile on his face as he slipped his keys into the perfect lock of a beautiful home, one that wasn’t going to fall apart or be burgled or _have the door kicked in by some rival gang._ He’d be greeted by a father who gave a shit, a decent man who only drank at parties instead of every spare second, and honorable man with a good job who wanted to provide. Jughead would enter, throwing a new school bag over the banister of polished stairs and enter the kitchen, eating what he wanted before sitting down in his office, running warm fingers along the keys of a typewriter and just being _alive_.

Jughead shivered, suddenly sad. _Maybe one day_, he thought despite knowing that it was ultimately impossible. _Maybe one day_.

Jughead came to the opening at the end of the wet alley he was sneaking through, standing still under the shade of the derelict buildings in the rundown neighborhood. He wrapped the material of his thin hoodie around his chest, flexing freezing fingers. Jones looked up and around, immediately noticing smashed windows and shoes hanging from telephone wires. _Fuck_.

_ I’m not scared. I’m not- _

“Jones?”

He looked up fast, faced with reddened eyes and shaggy hair. The man before him was disgusting, yellowing nails and wrinkled skin and a look in his eye that made Jughead want to drop everything and run. He bit his lip, nails scratching slightly to hard at the back of his opposite hand. His mind went back to the beautiful house, to the father who cared, to the fucking _typewriter_, anything to stop him from shaking with nerves. _Maybe. One. Day. _

_For fucks sake Jug' who are you kidding? _

_You’re running drugs to support yourself. _

_You’ll never be anybody. _

His head taunted him cruelly and he wanted to claw at his scalp, ripping the nasty thoughts from his very being.

“You got the stuff, boy?”

Jughead nodded, fast and shaky, throat dry and unable to speak. Witty confidence and usual bite gone, he reached down into his side bag, torn and tattered and patched, pulling out a package of a substance he didn’t even know. He held it out, trembling, trying to keep at least some semblance of distance between him and this _weirdo_.

The man snatched the package, nails briefly scratching Jughead’s cold skin. He was smiling, almost growling, yellowing teeth sharply grazing against cracking lips.

Jughead shivered again. He looked at the package as if surveying, trying to find a problem, and Jughead knew he should go, he should run, but he was frozen to the spot, a strange paralysis lacing each cell and leaving him unable to move. The man looked up at him again, movements slow and deliberate and terrifying.

“This ain't the agreed upon amount.”

The tone was flat and sinister. 

Jughead panicked, hand scratching again, for a brief moment imagining long bony fingers gripping his throat and crushing is esophagus. He couldn’t breathe, and felt hot sticky bile rising like the calm before a storm. No.

“I-I-”

The man laughed, croaky and dry, as if he’d caught Jughead in some kind of sick joke.

“How old are ya, boy?”he asked, laughter still on his lips.

“S-Sixteen.”

The laughter stopped in a way which was shocking and abrupt, leaving the alleyway as quick as it came, remnants of echoes bouncing off walls as if taunting. A shaggy head twitched almost psychotically, and he looked at Jughead in a way he could not read. The man shrugged, as if what he had just done was the most casual thing in the world.

“Old enough to know not to piss people off.”

Jughead barely had time to process the cruel statement before the man swung forward, digging something sharp and rusted into Jughead’s ribs. Jones screamed, torn and broken, the stabbing not truly hitting home until he dropped to the floor, beanie barely cushioning his head when it thumped against the concrete, red stickiness coating his hand when he reached for the wound. He coughed and spluttered, agony racing though every cell, breathe becoming a chore he was to weak to acomplish. 

He was going to die alone, in an alleyway.

His thoughts drifted back to the dream. The home, his Dad’s warm arms around his shoulders. He could do with his Dad here right now.

Jughead was cold, the pain not really registering anymore.

He closed his eyes.

“No!”

Jughead yelled, voice hoarse from dehydration and sweat dripping down his back. He shot up from the bed, sleep tired muscles throbbing from the sudden strain. He looked around the room, eyes wet and wide with distress. Hands wandered to his side, quickly patting the spot where the wound had been, finding only smooth skin. His breathing calmed slighlty, but the fear was still strong and present.

Warm, comfortable, clean sheets and memory foam mattresses. He was Jughead Jones, Southside Serpents leader, son of The Sheriff, with a good home and a good family and a great girlfriend.

A small hand on his shoulder made him flinch, breath still coming fast. Betty looked at him in a gentle concern, sleep in her eyes and furrowed brows, other hand idly wandering the length of his back before tracing the head of the snake tattoo that curved across his bicep. He calmed more.

“You okay?” She murmured, head on his shoulder now, loose hair against his back, voice ever so gentle. He nodded, shifting to embrace her more comfortably, eyes still roaming around the room, shocked at who he was and who he used to be.

“Yeah, Betty,” he said aloud, as if assuring himself as well as her. “I’ll be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alright listen, I watched every episode of Riverdale so far. After s3 (which I didn't really enjoy) I wasn't sure if I'd ever write anything or even continue the show.
> 
> HOWEVER 
> 
> Not going to lie, s4 is actually really good so far (even though it's only 4 episodes, I didn't expect much), and it got me inspired to write something again.


End file.
